“For what?”
“He didn't specify. Just said the bones are good but the rest is...challenging.”
“Challenging is better than carpeted bathrooms.”
“Almost anything is better than carpeted bathrooms.”
They drove north, following the familiar route from Sanibel to Captiva. The causeway stretched before them, blue water on both sides, the afternoon sun warm through the windshield. Eloise fell asleep within minutes, her head lolling against the side of her car seat, the teething ring still clutched in her fist.
Christopher loved this drive. He had made it dozens of times since they arrived in December, and it never got old. The way the light hit the water. The pelicans and herons that lined the shore. The sense of leaving the mainland behind and entering a world that moved at its own pace.
This was where he wanted to build his life. This stretch of coast, these islands, this community that had welcomed his family so completely. He just needed to find the right place to put down roots.
They crossed onto Captiva and continued north, past the shops and restaurants, past the turn for the Key Lime Garden Inn, past beaches and rental properties and the occasional glimpse of water through the trees. The island narrowed as they drove, the Gulf on one side and Pine Island Sound on the other.
Devon was waiting for them in the driveway of a house that looked, from the outside, like something out of a magazine.
The structure was low and sprawling, classic Florida architecture with a metal roof and wide porches and windows that seemed to drink in the light. Palm trees framed the entrance, and a crushed shell driveway wound through landscaping that had grown slightly wild but still held the bones of careful design. Beyond the house, Christopher could see water, a dock, the endless blue of Pine Island Sound.
“This is it?” Becca asked, her voice surprised.
Devon walked toward them as they got out of the car, hishand raised in greeting. He was a tall man in his sixties, tanned and fit, with the easy manner of someone who had spent his life on these islands.
“Don't let the outside fool you,” he said, shaking Christopher's hand. “The exterior held up well, but the inside is another story.”
“How bad?” Christopher asked.
“Let me show you.”
They retrieved Eloise from the car seat, still drowsy from her nap, and followed Devon up the front steps. The porch was solid, the boards recently painted, but when Devon opened the front door, Christopher understood immediately what he had meant.
The smell hit them first. Mustiness, age, the particular scent of a house that had been closed up too long with no one to care for it. The foyer was dim, the windows covered with heavy drapes that blocked most of the light, and what Christopher could see in the shadows made his heart sink.
Water stains on the ceiling. Wallpaper peeling in long strips. A floor that had buckled in places, warped by humidity and neglect. The bones of the house were there, the high ceilings and open layout and flow between rooms, but everything else needed work. Serious work. The kind of work that took months and money and more energy than Christopher was sure they had.
“The previous owner was a man named Harold Westbrook,” Devon said, leading them through the house. “He and his wife Eleanor bought this place in the seventies. Raised their kids here, retired here, loved every inch of it. But when Eleanor passed about eight years ago, Harold just...stopped. Stopped maintaining. Stopped caring. His children lived out of state, and by the time they realized how bad things had gotten, Harold was in decline himself. He passed in January, and the family just wants it gone.”
They moved through the living room, past a kitchen with appliances that belonged in a museum, past bathrooms with cracked tiles and fixtures that hadn't been updated in decades.Every room told the same story: a house that had once been loved, then forgotten.
But then Devon led them through a set of French doors onto the back porch, and Christopher stopped breathing.
The view.
The water stretched out before them, shimmering in the afternoon light. A wooden dock extended from the shore, weathered but still standing. Mangroves lined the edges of the property, creating a sense of privacy and seclusion. A great blue heron stood motionless in the shallows, patient and elegant.
Christopher walked to the edge of the porch and stood there, feeling the breeze on his face, watching the light move across the water. He thought about Summit Compass Florida. About teaching kids with disabilities to sail and paddle and swim. About building a life in a place that felt, finally, like it could be home.
Becca appeared beside him, Eloise now awake and babbling in her arms.
“It's a lot of work,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
“The kitchen alone would take months. And the bathrooms. And the floors.”
“I know.”
“We'd have to gut half of it. Maybe more.”
